


So Mote it Be

by Lisafer



Category: Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce, The Song of the Lioness - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/M, Forum: The Dancing Dove, Gift Fic, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisafer/pseuds/Lisafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raoul learns the joys and pains of complicated love before finding the right one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Betrothal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlmightyChrissy (haycorn)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haycorn/gifts).



Midwinter, 443 H.E.

The Crystal Room had taken the better part of three years to restore. Initially King Jonathan had not wanted to spend any portion of the royal coffers on something so frivolous: taxes had been suspended for the first year of his reign, and all funds collected from tariffs and taxes during the following year were redistributed to the people in Corus and other places damaged by Roger’s deeds. But Duke Gareth wisely pointed out that the Crystal Room had been a part of every Midwinter celebration since the era of King Jonathan II, so Jonathan and Thayet did what they could to restore it to its natural glory.

And how, thought Buri, as she swept through the room in search of someone—anyone—who would talk of interesting matters. With the births of the Crown Prince and the Princess Royal, Thayet’s company had been much altered from their years before coming to Tortall. And Alanna seemed to have slipped into her own form of maternal bliss, now that she had a son. Frankly, Buri’s sanity depended on a nice conversation about the Riders, or crossbows, or anything that didn’t have to do with babies or the voluminous red brocade dress Thayet had bullied her into wearing.

“You look lost,” Raoul slurred from his seat in the corner of the ballroom. He was tucked into a small alcove, nearly concealed by a velvet curtain. “And nice.”

“Thank you.” She paused next to him. “I think you have the right idea, hiding like this.”

He laughed a bit more sharply than she was used to.

“Do you have Midwinter plans?” she asked congenially, taking a seat next to him. 

“A bit of recruiting,” he answered. He took a gulp from his glass of wine. “Now that the land is back to normal, more sons can be spared. I want to branch out and create another company, if Jon will let me.”

“A third?” Buri scoffed. “Certainly not. He doesn’t have the kind of funding for that—and if he did, he would certainly place it in something more important, since he just granted you your second company a year and a half ago.”

“Let me guess,” he slurred with a grin. “You’d rather have an increase in Rider units?”

“Of course. They’re more efficient.” She could see that he wanted to protest, so she cut him off before he began. “Let’s just celebrate.”

He nodded and exchanged his empty goblet for a full one when a tray-bearing squire passed by. Buri didn’t particularly like Raoul when he was drunk, but it looked like he wasn’t far enough along in the process to make her want to leave.

“Thayet says the king has an announcement to make,” she said, gesturing to the dais, where the king and queen were sitting, immersed in a discussion with Lady Cythera of Elden, Thayet’s closest companion and social coordinator.

Raoul shrugged, staring at the royal pair. “Alanna mentioned that,” he said finally. His eyes, Buri noted, followed Lady Cythera as she crossed the room to speak to members of a string quartet.

They drank in silence, Buri unsure of what to say and Raoul apparently uninterested in discussion. Snippets of conversations came to her ears: plans for fief improvements, aspirations for children, compliments on clothing. 

But their comfortable, silent wine-drinking was halted when the king rose to his feet. Conversations desisted and the lords and ladies of Tortall turned to face him.

“Tonight,” he began, flashing his brilliant smile, “we celebrate a great many things. Another difficult season has passed, and we thank the gods for our survival. We pray that our harvest will be more abundant next year, and that our struggles end in due time. We celebrate the births and deaths of the year,” he said with a nod toward Raoul, who had recently become the Lord of Goldenlake upon his father’s passing, and Alanna, whose six-month-old son was asleep elsewhere in the palace. “And of course, we celebrate the newest knight into our midst: young Sir Paxton of Nond is the first of a fine group of men to earn his shield this week.”

A smattering of applause punctuated this statement and a gangly eighteen-year-old boy in Nond brown gave a slight bow. 

“But there is another announcement to be made,” Jonathan continued, his smile turning playful, “and it is with great honor and delight that we begin the Midwinter festivities in such a manner.”

A murmur rippled through the ballroom, and Buri rolled her eyes. Jon certainly had a gift with his subjects.

“Our Prime Minister, Sir Gareth of Naxen, has chosen to embark upon a new era of his life, and wishes for us to announce his betrothal.” 

Buri glanced at Raoul, who was buried in his wine goblet. He did not look surprised--certainly as Gary’s closest friend he would have known about this all ready? But he did not look happy.

Buri knew that Gary had been contemplating marriage for a while. Earlier in the year they had, along with Raoul, openly mocked the king’s goal to have every one of their set married and having babies before the year ended. But Gary had mentioned, not long later, that he had put his trust in his father to find the right match for him. While others declared this tradition old-fashioned, Conservative, and fool-hardy, Buri suspected that Gary, now twenty-eight years old, had another reason for asking for his father’s help. She suspected that the Prime Minister had a broken heart. Perhaps, like most men she knew, he was enamored with Thayet, or maybe even Alanna. 

“Would you like to know who the promised lady is?” Jon asked with a laugh, pulling Gary to the front of the dais with him. The king was light-hearted and thrilled, no doubt, at the prospect of political unions and a plethora of heirs for Tortall’s successful future.

Buri watched Raoul take another swig of wine from his goblet, a disgusted look etched upon his face, while the people around them cheered for the Prime Minister they had grown to love.

“Let us congratulate Lady Cythera of Elden,” the king shouted, sweeping his arm out to gesture to the most beautiful woman at court, save the queen.

All around them, people clapped and cheered. Raoul, Buri observed, was silent. He kept drinking, his eyebrows knit together as he glared at his best friend over the rim of his glass.

“You aren’t in love with her, are you?” she asked softly, touching his arm.

He choked, dribbling wine down the front of his tunic. He swore and began dabbing at himself with a handkerchief. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scowled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, like a child. He rose to his feet. “I need some air.” He made his way to the terrace doors, shuffling his feet and grabbing another goblet of wine.


	2. Cythera

Sleeping with Cythera, back in the summer of 439, had been a mistake. It was not that Raoul had not loved her. In fact, he had been rather fond of her since her first days at court. Not only was she beautiful, with her ash-blonde curls and dimpled smile, but the girl was the sweetest person he had ever known. When she had first come to court, Raoul was wary. He knew that they came in droves to marry rich sons of richer lords--and he seemed to fit that description perfectly, according to the madwomen who pestered him at every court function. But she was friendly, and proved to have a cool head on her shoulders during intense situations. He liked that.

During the last four years of King Roald’s reign, he realized that she was not married, despite numerous offers. When asked why, she merely shrugged and stated that a noblewoman of independent wealth had no reason to marry, if she did not want to. This encouraged even greater friendship between them, and with that grew a mild flirtation. There were times when Raoul shocked himself by attending garden parties, where he spent the afternoons hiding behind hydrangeas, covertly searching the lawn for the pretty lady. His friends had gaped on the final Midwinter party before Queen Lianne’s death, when Cythera had lured him into a dance.

But after the Coronation Day disaster, in July of 439, such mild flirtations seemed pointless. People were injured throughout the palace. There was a pile of corpses to be separated and taken to either the Chapel of the Black God or Traitor’s Hill, where they would be burned. But through all of it--the security reports he had to collect, the triage the healers were managing, the aftershocks of the horrendous earthquake--his attention kept turning to beautiful, serene Cythera, who was walking among the wounded, gently washing the faces of soldiers and civilians caught in the morning’s crossfire. She paid no heed to her own wounded arm, bleeding through its bandage. 

Watching her, Raoul could not begin to deny his love.

And that evening, they were given the chance to speak for the first time all day. But when they faced each other in the dim lamplight of Cythera’s sitting room, Raoul realized that words were completely unnecessary. He crossed the room in two quick strides, his lips upon her before his arms had time to wrap around her body.

The next morning, when he awoke with dark blonde curls spilled over his face, he tried to piece it all together. He did not regret their actions, but he wondered if sorrow and fear were always going to be the driving forces in his love life. When Cythera awoke, she gave him no chance to apologize; they made love again.

Cythera was not a fast woman, like Lady Delia. Raoul was certain that he was her first and only lover during their three years together. She grew to prominence in King Jonathan’s court as the queen’s assistant. She was perhaps the busiest person in Corus, save Gary, and this suited Raoul’s hectic life perfectly. Weeks would pass without ever seeing the capital, when he roamed with the King’s Own—but whenever he came back there was a welcome reception.

After three years, though, Raoul could see its wear on Cythera. She rejected marriage proposal after marriage proposal, and though he recalled her childhood words about matrimony, he was filled with guilt. He had no wish to marry, though Cythera stirred within him the closest thing to that desire. He felt as though he were stringing her along, and despite her protestations, felt that he was taking advantage of her. His remorse led him to the realization that he had to make a choice: propose or end it all. And Raoul did not want to be married.

So they had drifted apart, occasionally meeting at parties and exchanging longing or confused looks across the room. Sometimes they would have polite verbal exchanges, barely hiding feelings that were still shared between them. But more often than not, Raoul completely avoided Corus. 

He did his best to feel nothing more than guilt--it had been his decision, after all. He had no right to misery and pain. But he knew it would never be that simple.

Then one December, Gary confided in him. Duke Gareth had suggested Lady Cythera as a most suitable wife--but Gary was not sure.

“Do you love her?” Raoul had asked nonchalantly.

“Do you?” Gary had looked at him with penetrating brown eyes that lacked their usual spark of playfulness. Cythera had told him everything, it seemed.

Raoul gave his side of the same story, assuring Gary that any love he had shared with Cythera was long gone, that Gary could court her with a clear conscience. “I don’t like it,” he told his long-time friend, “but my opinion hardly matters if you grow to love each other.”


	3. A Wedding

Beltane, 444 H.E.

The only good thing about a post-wedding celebration, Raoul firmly believed, was that no expense was spared in supplying alcohol. Wine, mead, ale, brandy--variation upon variation at his disposal.

And wedding celebrations were those blissful occasions when people relaxed more, in their joy, and let the constraints of etiquette lapse. At Geoffrey of Meron’s nuptials, just two months prior, Alanna and George had challenged each other to a drinking contest. Of course, the diminutive Lioness had been overly optimistic; George ended up carrying his sauced wife home that night. 

However, the Prime Minister’s wedding was not so rollicking an affair. While Raoul was thoroughly enjoying his ale, he noticed that few others had made this same decision.

 _Beltane_ , he thought with a grimace. _To promote a splendid life full of children and prosperity and the things every Tortallan is supposed to wish for all their lives._ He shook his head and took a long drink. It was bad enough to be present—did he have to be thinking?

He stopped listening to the chatter around him. Even his closest friends’ voices irritated him. He wanted to get away. He wanted to go home.

“So when will you be getting married, Raoul?”

It was Douglass of Veldine who spoke; he was Raoul’s former squire and a fellow bachelor.

“Oh, he’s never getting married,” Gary said with a smile, approaching with Cythera just in time to hear the question. They had been roaming from table to table throughout the Grand Hall, speaking to their guests.

“Never?” Alanna grinned, raising her eyebrows. “That’s a word that will always come back and bite you in the rump.”

“You say that now only because you always said you’d never marry,” George murmured. Alanna’s face contorted into a mask of mock-anger.

Raoul glared up at Cythera and Gary before rising to his feet. “I need a drink.”

But instead of heading to one of the servants who meandered through the crowd with trays of ale, he stomped toward the door that led to the service hallway. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. The world was spinning, and he wasn’t sure if it was anger, misery, or alcohol that caused it to do so.

A cool hand touched his cheek. When he opened his eyes he saw Cythera standing before him.

“How much have you had to drink?” she asked. Her voice was gentle. Sad. Pitying.

Raoul flinched away from the touch. “Go back to your party.”

“You told Gary you were fine with this,” she said. Her voice held no trace of accusation, but a matter-of-fact quality that he had always associated with her husband.

“I say a lot of things I don’t really mean,” Raoul retorted his voice growing louder. “What was I supposed to do? Throw myself prostrate before you and beg you not to do it? Convince you to deny any mutual affection between the two of you because I wasn’t happy?”

His words were met with silence.

“Would you have changed anything if I _had_ said something?” he continued coldly. “No. You would have told me that it was the bed that I made when I ended things, and now had come the time for me to sleep in it.”

Cythera’s understanding expression was replaced with one that seemed a cross between anger and discomfort. “How many chances did we give you?” she asked, her voice growing colder. “How many times did Gary ask you if he was doing the right thing?”

“Plenty of times--but I could tell that he was falling in love with you, and I wasn’t going to stand in the way.”

“Of course you weren’t!” Cythera hissed, “because that would mean putting your heart on the line. You couldn’t marry me when you wanted to because you were afraid, and for the same reason, you couldn’t ask him not to!”

Raoul angrily pushed her aside, moving down the hallway. Before he went too many steps, he spun on his heel only to stagger against the wall. “I didn’t ask to marry you because I didn’t know where I stood with Gary,” he slurred, reaching for the flask of whiskey he had carried with him all day. After a generous sip, he continued. “I didn’t stop _him_ from marrying you because I didn’t think it mattered, if that was what he wanted. It doesn’t mean that I cared about him or you any less than before. It means I didn’t know what I wanted, so I left you both to decide.” He leaned on the wall again, drained from yelling. “I didn’t know that the only two people I ever loved would end up married.”

“You let him end things between the two of you, even though you still cared for him?” Cythera asked softly. 

Raoul looked up at her sharply. “Gary told you everything?” he asked, his voice low.

She nodded. “We were honest from the beginning. He told me that he didn’t know what was going on between the two of you--what had been going on for years, You were always so aloof about it.”

“Yes,” Raoul said, closing his eyes again. He had been trying to protect himself, after the awkward break with Cythera. “Leaving you was the hardest thing I ever did--until that night he talked about marriage. Letting him go was awful.”

“Then why didn’t you hold on to him?” she asked, the slightest remnants of anger in her voice. She closed the gap between them, taking his large hand in both of hers. “If you loved him, you should have kept him.”

He grimaced. “I know.” He peered through partially opened eyes, examining her beautiful, troubled face. “Why should it matter now, though? You can’t look sad and tell me that I should’ve kept your husband. Not on your wedding day.”

Cythera sighed. “You’re right. But I never wanted my husband, my future, to settle so definitely on someone else’s unhappiness.”

He pulled her comfortably into his arms, still marveling over the way her tall frame fit so nicely against his own. He could feel her nervous breath against his neck. “I’m not unhappy,” he murmured. “Just lonely.” He lowered his mouth to hers, realizing for the first time exactly how long it had been since they had parted. 

She returned the kiss, clutching his tunic; within moments she voiced a protest and pushed him away, her hands against his chest. “I’m married,” she murmured. “And _you’re_ drunk.”

He knocked back the remaining contents of his flask with one large gulp. “You’re married,” he said with a scowl. “And I’m a confirmed bachelor with nothing left, since you’ve taken Gary with you.” He pushed himself past her and moved to return to the Grand Hall.

“‘Taken Gary with you?’” she repeated angrily. “Have you not listened to one word I’ve said?” 

He turned quickly, stumbling as he did so. He opened his mouth, but felt a firm hand clap over it.

“Come along, Goldenlake.” A commanding voice swam into Raoul’s head while strong fingers clamped on his arm. “Pardon us, Lady Cythera.” He did not loosen his grip as he dragged Raoul down the corridor, though he did uncover his mouth. 

“What the hell was that for?” Raoul growled as he was shoved through the narrow entry hall.

“You’re making a complete fool of yourself.”

Raoul twisted and tried to break free, but it was to no avail. 

“You may be bigger and stronger, but you’re also a sloppy drunk.”

Raoul was finally able to place that frigid, severe voice. “Wyldon of Cavall,” he slurred, yanking his arm free and facing the shorter man. “Since when are Conservatives invited to parties like this?”

Wyldon grabbed him by the collar and forced him against the stone wall. Raoul’s knees buckled beneath him, and he had no time to recover before he slumped to the ground. 

“That’s _Sir_ Wyldon,” he replied coldly. He crouched down to look Raoul in the eye. “And perhaps Conservatives are invited to parties like this because we understand decorum and respect, and we don’t go propositioning brides in back halls.” His glare was stern. “Or grooms.”

Raoul groaned. How much did the priggish bastard overhear before his assault? 

“Oh, don’t feel ashamed now,” Wyldon replied coldly. He left the entryway and stepped outside. When he came back, he held a wooden ladle full of water, presumably taken from the kitchen well. “Drink up,” he said, crouching before Raoul and holding up the ladle.

“Why are you doing this?” Raoul muttered between sips. 

Wyldon leaned back on his heels, examining him with serious eyes. “Because you’re better than this, Goldenlake. You used to be the best of the lot--the strongest, the sturdiest. And now... you’re a pathetic drunk.” He didn’t soften his tone or expression.

Raoul digested the words slowly, letting them sink in and cut through the murky slowness of his thoughts. He could hardly remember his conversation with Cythera. Had he made such a complete ass of himself? 

“What do I do?” The words came out low, barely above a whisper.

Wyldon’s brown eyes met his with unfamiliar kindness. “Give me the flask,” he answered.


	4. Gary

Sleeping with Gary, back in the summer of 435, had been a mistake. It was after they had planned to help Prince Jonathan rescue Squire Alan that they noticed the attraction. No, they’d noticed it long before then. It was impossible to spend eight years growing up in such proximity to each other, hearing tales of squires tumbling young girls, seeing fellows fall in love, and knowing each other’s bodies so well, without noting that there was something a little different about them.

But that summer, things had changed. They were twenty years old: not completely inexperienced, but not as wise as they would become. And they were going to risk their lives to protect a friend. Whether it was high emotions or high adrenaline, they had tumbled into their tent together and fell into a new kind of relationship.

“The king won’t punish us if it’s Jon’s idea, right?” Gary had said with a nervous laugh--almost a giggle--as he poured himself more wine.

“Certainly not. I’m hoping we’ll be out of this horrid river bed before Beltane, if all goes well.”

Gary had given Raoul a skeptical look. “You know nothing of diplomacy. We won’t be home until August, even if we got King Ain himself.”

Not that it mattered. What mattered was that their squires had decided to spend the evening in Duke Baird’s makeshift hospital, helping with patients and keeping an eye on anyone who might compromise their mission. What mattered was that there was enough wine to get them sufficiently tipsy. What mattered was that Gary was wearing banded mail, and it took two of them to manage all those buckles and straps in their inebriated state.

And that night, they slept together in a bedroll much too small for Raoul, let alone both of them. And Raoul wrapt himself around his new lover, listening to Gary’s heartbeat and thinking that finally--finally!--everything would be all right. Even though he knew that a knight’s duty was not as pretty as they’d once thought, even though he had seen men cloven in two by his own battle axe, even though he knew that a skirmish tomorrow could end Gary’s or his life--that night there was a feeling that there was a point to the past twenty years. And it was a feeling that made Raoul happy.

It was not a conventional relationship--not that Raoul had much to compare it to. They were rarely together in the palace long enough to even discuss their status, had discussion been on their minds at all. Between border patrols and other knightly duties, they found each other once or twice a month. But it was enough.

Gary and Raoul. Raoul and Gary. Their names had been inseparable for years.

When King Roald died and Gary was promoted to the position of Prime Minister, and Raoul had taken on the duties of Knight Commander of the King’s Own, life took a sudden change. There was no time for leisure. And when there was, they were rarely together.

It was during this lapse that Raoul’s friendship with Cythera deepened. Gary spent the evening of the Coronation at his father’s bedside, while Raoul spent it with a new lover.

There was no bitter parting, no regret. They could hardly describe their relationship when they had been involved; how could they describe it now that it was over? Raoul never told Cythera about it. It wasn’t that she would not understand, but that he was not sure if Gary would want anyone else to know. He had led a relatively normal public existence, casually courting women but never asking for anyone’s hand. Most people assumed he was a confirmed bachelor, like Raoul. Some insisted that he was incapable of settling down.

But “over” was a relative term. There were times when Gary was overwhelmed with his duties, and needed a friend. There were occasions when Raoul felt that Cythera could not understand him: even though Gary was a “desk knight”, he at least knew the feeling of taking someone’s life. He understood the remorse Raoul inevitably felt after defeating a weaker party. And sometimes understanding was made possible with a few drinks, and sometimes a few drinks would turn them into the giggling messes they had been when they were twenty. And even though palace beds were bigger than army cots, Raoul would still wrap himself around smaller Gary and listen to his constant heartbeat.

And it would be over again, Raoul heading back to the Own, or Cythera, and Gary immersing himself in his books and reports.

After Cythera, there was a degree of distance. As much as Raoul wanted to seek out his friend, he felt like he was choosing Gary over Cythera. If he couldn’t marry Cythera, he certainly couldn’t have a monogamous relationship with Gary. It was all or nothing in Raoul’s world.

And, apparently, in Gary’s, too. Within a year he had announced his intention to let his father find him a bride. They had been sitting together at lunch with the Queen and Alanna and Buri, and Gary had looked at Raoul with eyes full of questions. And while Thayet and Alanna scoffed at the notion of nobles not choosing their own spouses, and Buri had scoffed at the notion of people wanting to get married at all, Raoul had merely nodded at his friend and said softly, “Good luck with that.”


	5. A Proposal

July, 447 H.E.

Gary did not hate many things in life. He had always been a happy-go-lucky sort. But one thing he did hate was when Cythera frowned.

Not that it marred her beauty, of course. No, the turned-down lips and furrowed eyebrows and the expression of deep thought was rather pleasing to the eyes, along with the way she absent-mindedly flipped her fan in her hand or tugged a curl loose from her complicated coif.

It was the mere fact that Cythera was unhappy that bothered Gary. Perhaps he was a sentimental fool, but he disliked seeing anyone he loved remotely unhappy, and Cythera had been frowning more and more lately.

He stood carefully and crossed to her side of the boat. She glanced up at him when she felt the gentle rocking.

“This is lovely, isn’t it?” she asked, gesturing to toward the dozens of similar vessels on the River Oleron. “When the sun sets and the paper lanterns are lit, it will be even more impressive.”

Gary took her hand in both of his, and kissed it affectionately. “What’s upsetting you, dear?”

He expected a smile and a denial, or perhaps a string of half-truths--a list of trivial things that were bothering her, but not quite the cause of her distance. He was surprised when she shrugged.

“I feel... lonely,” she said, leaning into him.

Gary was thankful for the canopy of layers of gauze that hung over their seat, blocking them from the sun, because it also partially masked them from the view of the other boaters; he was not fond of displaying his affection for the world to see. But in this case, he could not resist embracing his wife and kissing her soundly, or gently caressing her pale cheek.

“Gilmyn is fine,” he assured her. “Mother and Father were looking forward to taking care of him--you know they had no intention to come out in this heat.”

She smiled almost gratefully, but then shook her head. “I was not thinking of the dear boy, though now you’ve filled my head with worries of your father playing too roughly with him.” She stared through the sheer curtains again, at an ornate barge upriver; it was the king and queen’s boat.

“Is he happy?” she whispered.

“Jon?” Gary asked incredulously. “I’ve never seen him better. The kingdom is finally heading toward the kind of prosperity he’s been waiting eight years for, with potential alliances with Galla and the Yamani Islands, and the almanacs predict a good crop this year, and we’ve got the information compiled from the most recent cens--”

“No,” Cythera cut him off. “Raoul.”

“Oh.”

From where he sat he could see Raoul standing near Jonathan, surveying security and looking like the perfect model of the knight commander of the King’s Own. He seemed so distant and somehow larger than he had ever been before. Every so often Gary would see a quick smile or exchange shared between him and one of his men, or a member of the Rider unit the queen had put on display.

Raoul had changed over the last few years. He was more distant, but at the same time, much more approachable for the rest of the nobility. It wasn’t that Raoul wasn’t intentionally more agreeable than he had been in the past, it was that he had stopped drinking. In fact, the last time anyone had seen him drunk was at Gary’s wedding.

“Do you think he’s happy?” Cythera asked, pulling Gary from his memories.

“I don’t know,” Gary said honestly. They had spoken little since his wedding. Certainly, during meetings with Jonathan’s council, they had conversed. An aura of congeniality still emanated from them, to the point that even the king, Gary’s closest friend and favorite cousin, believed little to have changed between them.

But Gary missed Raoul--as a friend, a confidante, sometimes as a lover. He was more than happy, sharing his life with Cythera. But there were still times when he missed Raoul’s practical advice, or even his brutal kisses.

He felt Cythera’s eyes on him. “Are you happy?” she asked. “Or do you miss him as much as I do?”

Conflicting emotions assaulted Gary. On one hand, he was relieved to know that his wife understood him. But on the other, he was reminded of his irrational jealousies from their courting days: he was disturbed by her liason with Raoul, though he had his own.

He sighed. “Of course I miss him. But I would never give up what we have so that I might be with him again.” His tone was low and gruff, and it surprised Gary to finally be able to voice sentiments he’d spent so many hours deliberating years ago.

“Nor would I,’ Cythera agreed instantly.

An awkward silence hung between the two of them.

“I would, however…” Cythera began, but trailed off. She wrung her hands, still staring at the royal barge with an expression of longing.

“You want him, too?” Gary asked in an even voice, despite his racing heartbeat.

His wife nodded.

“Should I talk to him?”

Her eyes darted to his, wide with what he could only describe as panic. It was one thing to suggest sharing their marital bed with a former lover; it was another thing entirely to make it happen.

“No,” she whispered.

Gary felt his edginess dissipate. He hadn’t realized how unnerved the conversation had made him. But at the same time, disappointment arose. Did he want to spend a night with both Cythera and Raoul?

Life with Cythera had been pleasant since Gimlyn’s birth, but nights were less passionate. Their days were filled with the new duties of parenthood in addition to their already-rigorous schedules. There was little time to dedicate to their romantic lives, nor even wonder where the spark had gone.

Looking at his wife’s longing expression, focused again on Raoul, Gary had to wonder if this was what she needed. What he needed. And--perhaps--even what Raoul needed? His own gazed settled on Raoul, and he was surprised to see those dark eyes resting on him. They flicked to Cythera and back, and his eyebrows raised slightly.

Gary felt himself flush, but kept his eyes on Raoul. He wondered if his face showed half the passion Cythera’s did--and if that were the case, could Raoul even miss their unasked question?

An expression of distaste distorted Raoul’s features. He shook his head with an aura of disgust before stomping out of sight.


	6. Buri

Sleeping with Buri, in the winter of 457, had been a mistake. When the urge was acted upon, it felt safe. She’d made it clear from the start, as she was unbuttoning his shirt, that there would be no strings attached.

Strings attached... it was one of the hundreds of things they had discussed on the way home from his family’s Midwinter party. He told her about his past relationships--the awkward confessions about Gary and Cythera and the uncomfortable accounts of flings with the kind of people who didn’t expect marriage. Buri disclosed her own handful of encounters, like always managing to keep to herself even while she shared. They were flip sides of the same worn coin, fearing commitment and changes that couldn’t be predicted.

Like other affairs he’d had in the past, Raoul couldn’t remember what had triggered that first kiss. They had been discussing something non-romantic--going riding in the morning? Their voyage to Tortall together fifteen years prior?--when Buri had pulled him into a kiss. Earlier in the day, had someone asked what kissing Buri might feel like, Raoul would have sneered and made a comment about incest. They were cut from the same cloth, after all. But her lips under his felt so gods-perfectly right. Her mouth was soft and mysterious; her kiss was passionate, almost brutal.

And when she finally pulled away, leaving him panting and aching for more, she smirked and said, “You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

It was a matter of minutes before they found themselves in his bed, altering their friendship forever. Amid the new and wondrous thoughts tearing through his mind, one sentiment echoed, pulsing with his blood: we can’t go back.

Hours later they whispered in the dark. Buri confessed that she had once fancied herself in love with him, when she was a teenager and new to Tortall. But Raoul has been such a confirmed bachelor that she gave up hope early, and moved on.

Even after Gary and Cythera, though, he’d kept his bachelor-reputation. He’d shut himself off because of the fear of losing it all again. Ten years before, when he had seen the looks of longing on Gary’s and Cythera’s faces, he’d read plainly in their expressions the invitation into their bed. But he also saw the clasp of their hands. He saw the rings on their fingers. He saw the fatigue in their shoulders that shouted to the world that they were tired-but-happy parents. Yes, they could invite him into their lives for an evening, a fortnight, even the rest of his life. But they were dedicated to each other in a way that excluded him.

At the time he had been disgusted that two people with all they could desire would potentially throw it way for a walk down memory lane with him. The repercussions could have been severe. Maybe the progressive King Jon would forgive his prime minister’s sexual appetite, but Tortall could not. The Mithran priests would damn them all, if one world leaked out.

But Raoul had been less disgusted with them than he was with himself. It had been four years since their engagement and he still wanted nothing more than to haul one of them--or both--to the nearest bed. It was enough to send him to a tankard of ale, even though he had vowed to never drink again.

Over time he came to the conclusion that any pain he had felt was his own doing. He had refused to offer Gary a reason to not search for a bride. He had decided to leave Cythera rather than marry her. He had relied on affections waning over time to end his relationships instead of making clean breaks. It was never a matter of missing chances so much as turning away from them.

He would, of course, always love them. But a familiar friendship had replaced any lingering desire or passion. He no longer looked at them and felt betrayal or anger. Part of him wondered what could have been; he could never deny that.

But then came a newer, stronger voice that spoke as he held the K’miri to his chest and drifted to sleep: “Maybe having strings attached is all right.”

And maybe sleeping with Buri was an accident, but not a mistake.


	7. Another Wedding

September, 460 HE

A lot could change in a fifteen-year span, Cythera knew. Even more in twenty. Had anyone asked her, twenty years ago, if she would ever be happily married, her answer would have been “no”. Of course, it was because her answer would have been tied so very closely to the answer Raoul would have given to the same question.

It was amusing, delighting, even refreshing to know how wrong she would have been on both counts.

Originally Raoul was going to wait before he and Buri married. He wanted to be in Corus, in a time of peace. But Buri’s practicality won in the end--marrying was more important during the lull of war. They couldn’t be sure that either of them would make it home, after all.

For a makeshift military wedding, Cythera found it beautiful. Then again, she found every wedding to be a sacred and lovely affair. She could be a ridiculously sentimental creature at times.

She rested one hand on her youngest son’s shoulder; the other nestled in her husband’s hand. Geoffrey, Raoul’s godsson, was leaning forward eagerly. Cythera could not tell if he was excited about the Mithran priest’s oration, or the two cats who were fighting near the infirmary. Gary, on the other hand, was studying Raoul intently.

Cythera suspected he was looking for any signs of uncertainty or fear on Raoul’s face: was it a genuine, slightly lopsided smile? Were his eyes crinkling with joy?

“He rolled to the balls of his feet,” Gary murmured. “He does that when he’s delighted.”

Cythera leaned against him, sighing with relief. While she knew in her heart that this was the best thing for Raoul, a tiny part of her suspected that his fears of change and commitment might lead him astray. But her husband was right: as Buri gave her affirmation of love, Raoul rocked from his heels to the balls of his feet as subtly as a giant. Across the crude chapel she could see Alanna grinning with Raoul’s former squire. Had any of them seen him this gleeful before?

The ceremony continued with Raoul’s affirmation, followed by the priest and priestess’s final prayers. Raoul beamed at the final “so mote it be” before sweeping Buri into his arms for a deep kiss. The scores of men from the Third Company cheered with gusto.

“He’s happy,” Cythera said with a smile, wiping tears from her eyes. “It’s silly of me to cry, since all I’ve ever wanted was to see him....”

“Like he was before?” Gary asked, his voice low. Cythera knew that, like her, he took the blame for the changes in Raoul over the last fifteen years.

She nodded. “But I think he’s happier now than he ever was.” She looked back at the altar. Buri had a joyous--albeit tearful--queen clinging to her, and Raoul was searching through the crowd. The moment his eyes met Cythera’s, he charged forward.

Cythera and Gary were near the back of the crowd, so it took an effort for Raoul to wade through the soldiers. When he finally reached them, they were both pulled into a crushing bear hug and let go only so Raoul could hoist his eight-year-old godsson onto his shoulders.

“Congratulations,” said Gary with a wide smile.

“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you,” Raoul replied. His voice was serious and his eyes were intense. “I owe you a thousand apologies, but I find it a lot easier to say one thank you.” He turned back to look at Buri, his eyes shining. He continued to speak to them without tearing his gaze from his wife. “Without you two, I wouldn’t have known where to begin with Buri. And I certainly wouldn’t’ve ended up here, with Mithros and the entire army watching me abandon my bachelordom.”

Cythera touched his arm lightly and his eyes snapped back to her. “I’m so glad you’ve found someone so perfect for you,” she whispered, a lump forming in her throat. “May Mithros and the Goddess bless you both.” She kissed his cheek.

Gary, she knew, was touched beyond words. He simply smiled and gave Raoul a firm one-armed hug, murmuring something that could have been “gods bless”.

The three of them said nothing for a long moment; Raoul broke the silence, pointing out that he’d been married five minutes and had already abandoned his wife to the queen’s clutches.

“I’ll rescue her,” Cythera laughed as she wiped at her eyes. “If there’s one wedding gift Buri can appreciate, it will be my ability to distract Thayet.”

She crossed the hall to deal with the overjoyed queen, pausing to look back and send her husband a smile. He was removed from Raoul, standing with some of the other knights, his hands resting on little Geoffrey’s shoulders, and looking more at ease than he had in years. His eyes met hers, and she felt the familiar thumping in her heart that only he could cause. She thought about Raoul’s words. Yes, they had all needed their first love, if only to help them recognize the right one.


End file.
